Julien Torma: Le contraire du problème est le poème
J u l i e n T o r m a
(1902-1933)
Le contraire du problème
est le poème
Hommage
à Littré
tel un sexe en érection
dans une bouteille
tel un voyeur faisant
des projets d’avenir
telle une rose noire pelotée
par un fou
tel un dentier d’or
éclatant de rire sur une table
de nuit
l’ A M O U R .
[...]
Casquette sur l’oreille le démon siffle
un diabolo-menthe sur le zinc
pendant que
comme une Image
d’Epinal
sage
le Souverain Poncif pelote
rêveusement ses grosses couilles d
e Tolède.
Le Hasard? ses créations ne sont pas plus mal réussies que celles de l’Autre. Ses desseins sont tout aussi imprévisibles, sa puissance infinie. Il lui ressemble comme un frère. Comme lui il se laisse aller aux improvisations. Son sublime également est un peu usé: il ne faut pas prendre au sérieux ce qui arrive. Comme Dieu, entremetteur et assassin: et de cuisse légère, offert au premier venu.
Pour l’optimiste, tout est bien: font partie de l’harmonie tous ces désordres, stupidités et insignifiances. Quel pessimiste! Pour le pessimiste tout devrait être beaucoup mieux: il semble croire qu’on puisse concevoir l’univers autrement qu’absurde et l’homme autrement que médiocre. Quel optimiste!
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Alexander Pushkin: A Confession & other Love Poems
A l e x a n d e r P u s h k i n
(1799 – 1837)
Four Love Poems
A Confession
I love you – I love you, e’en as I
Rage at myself for this obsession,
And as I make my shamed confession,
Despairing at your feet I lie.
I know, I know – It ill becomes me,
I am too old, time to be wise …
But how? … This love – it overcomes me,
A sickness this in passion’s guise.
When you are near I’m filled with sadness,
When far, I yawn, for life’s a bore.
I must pour out this love, this madness,
There’s nothing that I long for more!
When your shirts rustle, when, my angel,
Your girlish voice I hear, when your
Light step sounds in the parlour – strangely,
I turn confused, perturbed, unsure.
Your frown – and I’m in pain, I languish;
You smile – and joy defeats distress;
My one reward for a day’s anguish
Comes when your, pale hand, love, I kiss.
When you sit, bent over your sewing,
Your eaes cast down and fine curls blowing.
About your face, with tenderness
I like childlike watch, my heart o’erflowing
With love, in my gaze a caress.
Shall I my jealousy and yearning
Describe, my bitterness and woe
When by yourself on some bleak morning
Off on a distant walk you go,
Or with another spend the evening
And, with him near, the piano play,
Or for Opochka leave, or, grieving
Weep and in silence, pass the day?
Alina! Pray relent have mercy!
I dare not ask for love – with all
My many sins, both great and small,
I am perhaps of love unworthy!
But if feigned love, if you would
Prefend, you’d easily deceive me,
For happily would I, believe me,
Deceive myself if but I could!
I Loved You
I loved you;
even now I may confess,
Some embers of my love their fire retain;
But do not let it cause you more distress,
I do not want to sadden you again.
Hopeless and tongue-tied, yet I loved you dearly,
With pangs the jealous and the timid know;
So tenderly I loved you, so sincerely,
I pray God grant another love you so.
I Loved You Once
I loved you once, nor can this heart be quiet;
For it would seem that love still lingers there;
But do not you be further troubled by it;
I would in no wise hurt you, oh, my dear.
I loved you without hope, a mute offender;
What jealous pangs, what shy despairs I knew!
A love as deep as this, as true, as tender,
God grant another may yet offer you.
A Wish
he days drag on, each moment multiplies
Within my wounded heart the pain and sadness
Of an unhappy love and, dark, gives rise.
To sleepless dreams, the haunting dreams of madness
But I do not complain – instead, I weep;
Tears bring me solace, comforted they leave me.
My spirit, captive held by grief, a deep.
And bitter rapture finds in them, believe me.
Pass, life! Come, empty phantom, onward fly.
And in the silent void of darkness vanish.
Dear it to me my love’s unending anguish;
If as I die I love, pray let me die.
Alexander Pushkin: Four Love Poems
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Hans Hermans Natuurdagboek: A Light exists in Spring
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E m i l y D i c k i n s o n
(1830 – 1886)
A Light exists in Spring
A Light exists in Spring
Not present on the Year
At any other period —
When March is scarcely here
A Color stands abroad
On Solitary Fields
That Science cannot overtake
But Human Nature feels.
It waits upon the Lawn,
It shows the furthest Tree
Upon the furthest Slope you know
It almost speaks to you.
Then as Horizons step
Or Noons report away
Without the Formula of sound
It passes and we stay —
A quality of loss
Affecting our Content
As Trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a Sacrament.
Natuurdagboek Hans Hermans – April 2009
Poem: Emily Dickinson – Photos: Hans Hermans
© photos hans hermans
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Elizabeth Barrett Browning: The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim’s Point
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
(1806-1861)
The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim’s Point
I
I stand on the mark beside the shore
Of the first white pilgrim’s bended knee,
Where exile turned to ancestor,
And God was thanked for liberty.
I have run through the night, my skin is as dark,
I bend my knee down on this mark…
I look on the sky and the sea.
II
O pilgrim-souls, I speak to you!
I see you come out proud and slow
From the land of the spirits pale as dew. . .
And round me and round me ye go!
O pilgrims, I have gasped and run
All night long from the whips of one
Who in your names works sin and woe.
III
And thus I thought that I would come
And kneel here where I knelt before,
And feel your souls around me hum
In undertone to the ocean’s roar;
And lift my black face, my black hand,
Here, in your names, to curse this land
Ye blessed in freedom’s evermore.
IV
I am black, I am black;
And yet God made me, they say.
But if He did so, smiling back
He must have cast His work away
Under the feet of His white creatures,
With a look of scorn,–that the dusky features
Might be trodden again to clay.
V
And yet He has made dark things
To be glad and merry as light.
There’s a little dark bird sits and sings;
There’s a dark stream ripples out of sight;
And the dark frogs chant in the safe morass,
And the sweetest stars are made to pass
O’er the face of the darkest night.
VI
But we who are dark, we are dark!
Ah, God, we have no stars!
About our souls in care and cark
Our blackness shuts like prison bars:
The poor souls crouch so far behind,
That never a comfort can they find
By reaching through the prison-bars.
VII
Indeed, we live beneath the sky,…
That great smooth Hand of God, stretched out
On all His children fatherly,
To bless them from the fear and doubt,
Which would be, if, from this low place,
All opened straight up to His face
Into the grand eternity.
VIII
And still God’s sunshine and His frost,
They make us hot, they make us cold,
As if we were not black and lost:
And the beasts and birds, in wood and fold,
Do fear and take us for very men!
Could the weep-poor-will or the cat of the glen
Look into my eyes and be bold?
IX
I am black, I am black!–
But, once, I laughed in girlish glee;
For one of my colour stood in the track
Where the drivers drove, and looked at me–
And tender and full was the look he gave:
Could a slave look so at another slave?–
I look at the sky and the sea.
X
And from that hour our spirits grew
As free as if unsold, unbought:
Oh, strong enough, since we were two
To conquer the world, we thought!
The drivers drove us day by day;
We did not mind, we went one way,
And no better a liberty sought.
XI
In the sunny ground between the canes,
He said "I love you" as he passed:
When the shingle-roof rang sharp with the rains,
I heard how he vowed it fast:
While others shook, he smiled in the hut
As he carved me a bowl of the cocoa-nut,
Through the roar of the hurricanes.
XII
I sang his name instead of a song;
Over and over I sang his name–
Upward and downward I drew it along
My various notes; the same, the same!
I sang it low, that the slave-girls near
Might never guess from aught they could hear,
It was only a name.
XIII
I look on the sky and the sea–
We were two to love, and two to pray,–
Yes, two, O God, who cried to Thee,
Though nothing didst Thou say.
Coldly Thou sat’st behind the sun!
And now I cry who am but one,
How wilt Thou speak to-day?–
XIV
We were black, we were black!
We had no claim to love and bliss:
What marvel, if each turned to lack?
They wrung my cold hands out of his,–
They dragged him… where ?… I crawled to touch
His blood’s mark in the dust!… not much,
Ye pilgrim-souls,… though plain as this!
XV
Wrong, followed by a deeper wrong!
Mere grief’s too good for such as I.
So the white men brought the shame ere long
To strangle the sob of my agony.
They would not leave me for my dull
Wet eyes!–it was too merciful
To let me weep pure tears and die.
XVI
I am black, I am black!–
I wore a child upon my breast
An amulet that hung too slack,
And, in my unrest, could not rest:
Thus we went moaning, child and mother,
One to another, one to another,
Until all ended for the best:
XVII
For hark ! I will tell you low… Iow…
I am black, you see,–
And the babe who lay on my bosom so,
Was far too white… too white for me;
As white as the ladies who scorned to pray
Beside me at church but yesterday;
Though my tears had washed a place for my knee.
XVIII
My own, own child! I could not bear
To look in his face, it was so white.
I covered him up with a kerchief there;
I covered his face in close and tight:
And he moaned and struggled, as well might be,
For the white child wanted his liberty–
Ha, ha! he wanted his master right.
XIX
He moaned and beat with his head and feet,
His little feet that never grew–
He struck them out, as it was meet,
Against my heart to break it through.
I might have sung and made him mild–
But I dared not sing to the white-faced child
The only song I knew.
XX
I pulled the kerchief very close:
He could not see the sun, I swear,
More, then, alive, than now he does
From between the roots of the mango… where
… I know where. Close! a child and mother
Do wrong to look at one another,
When one is black and one is fair.
XXI
Why, in that single glance I had
Of my child’s face,… I tell you all,
I saw a look that made me mad…
The master’s look, that used to fall
On my soul like his lash… or worse!
And so, to save it from my curse,
I twisted it round in my shawl.
XXII
And he moaned and trembled from foot to head,
He shivered from head to foot;
Till, after a time, he lay instead
Too suddenly still and mute.
I felt, beside, a stiffening cold,…
I dared to lift up just a fold…
As in lifting a leaf of the mango-fruit.
XXIII
But my fruit… ha, ha!–there, had been
(I laugh to think on’t at this hour!…)
Your fine white angels, who have seen
Nearest the secret of God’s power,…
And plucked my fruit to make them wine,
And sucked the soul of that child of mine,
As the humming-bird sucks the soul of the flower.
XXIV
Ha, ha, for the trick of the angels white!
They freed the white child’s spirit so.
I said not a word, but, day and night,
I carried the body to and fro;
And it lay on my heart like a stone… as chill.
–The sun may shine out as much as he will:
I am cold, though it happened a month ago.
XXV
From the white man’s house, and the black man’s hut,
I carried the little body on,
The forest’s arms did round us shut,
And silence through the trees did run:
They asked no question as I went,–
They stood too high for astonishment,–
They could see God sit on His throne.
XXVI
My little body, kerchiefed fast,
I bore it on through the forest… on:
And when I felt it was tired at last,
I scooped a hole beneath the moon.
Through the forest-tops the angels far,
With a white sharp finger from every star,
Did point and mock at what was done.
XXVII
Yet when it was all done aright,…
Earth, ‘twixt me and my baby, strewed,
All, changed to black earth,… nothing white,…
A dark child in the dark,–ensued
Some comfort, and my heart grew young:
I sate down smiling there and sung
The song I learnt in my maidenhood.
XXVIII
And thus we two were reconciled,
The white child and black mother, thus:
For, as I sang it, soft and wild
The same song, more melodious,
Rose from the grave whereon I sate!
It was the dead child singing that,
To join the souls of both of us.
XXIX
I look on the sea and the sky!
Where the pilgrims’ ships first anchored lay,
The free sun rideth gloriously;
But the pilgrim-ghosts have slid away
Through the earliest streaks of the morn.
My face is black, but it glares with a scorn
Which they dare not meet by day.
XXX
Ah!–in their ‘stead, their hunter sons!
Ah, ah! they are on me–they hunt in a ring–
Keep off! I brave you all at once–
I throw off your eyes like snakes that sting!
You have killed the black eagle at nest, I think:
Did you never stand still in your triumph, and shrink
From the stroke of her wounded wing?
XXXI
(Man, drop that stone you dared to lift!–)
I wish you, who stand there five a-breast,
Each, for his own wife’s joy and gift,
A little corpse as safely at rest
As mine in the mangos!–Yes, but she
May keep live babies on her knee,
And sing the song she liketh best.
XXXll
I am not mad: I am black.
I see you staring in my face–
I know you, staring, shrinking back–
Ye are born of the Washington-race:
And this land is the free America:
And this mark on my wrist… (I prove what I say)
Ropes tied me up here to the flogging-place.
XXXIII
You think I shrieked then? Not a sound!
I hung, as a gourd hangs in the sun.
I only cursed them all around,
As softly as I might have done
My very own child!–From these sands
Up to the mountains, lift your hands,
O slaves, and end what I begun!
XXXIV
Whips, curses; these must answer those!
For in this UNION, you have set
Two kinds of men in adverse rows,
Each loathing each: and all forget
The seven wounds in Christ’s body fair;
While HE sees gaping everywhere
Our countless wounds that pay no debt.
XXXV
Our wounds are different. Your white men
Are, after all, not gods indeed,
Nor able to make Christs again
Do good with bleeding. We who bleed…
(Stand off!) we help not in our loss!
We are too heavy for our cross,
And fall and crush you and your seed.
XXXVI
I fall, I swoon! I look at the sky:
The clouds are breaking on my brain;
I am floated along, as if I should die
Of liberty’s exquisite pain–
In the name of the white child, waiting for me
In the death-dark where we may kiss and agree,
White men, I leave you all curse-free
In my broken heart’s disdain!
Elizabeth Barrett Browning: The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim’s Point
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Museum of Literary Treasures: Sherlock Holmes V
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Museum of Literary Treasures
SHERLOCK HOLMES part V
The Sherlock Holmes Museum
Bakerstreet – LONDON
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photos: Kempis
Illustrations: Sidney Paget
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Filed under: FICTION & NON-FICTION,BOOKS,Arthur Conan Doyle,EXHIBITION,Museum of Literary Treasures,ULTIMATE LIBRARY,Sherlock Holmes Theatre
Art Cologne 2009 – Internationaler Kunstmarkt in Köln
A R T C O L O G N E 2 0 0 9
22-26 April 2009
e i n e I m p r e s s i o n
Vom 22. bis 26. April 2009 öffnet die 43. ART COLOGNE – Internationaler Kunstmarkt in Köln ihre Tore. Fünf Tage zeigen rund 180 Galerien aus dem In- und Ausland Kunst der Klassischen Moderne, Kunst nach 1945 sowie moderne und zeitgenössische Kunst. Vertreten sind Malerei, Skulptur und Installationen, Video und Photographie, Arbeiten auf Papier sowie Editionen und Multiples. So reflektiert die ART COLOGNE die Vielfalt des Kunsthandels in Europa und Übersee auf hohem Niveau.
A R T C O L O G N E 2 0 0 9
Internationaler Kunstmarkt Köln
e i n e I m p r e s s i o n
photos: Anton K.
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Joost van den Vondel: Domine, non est exaltatum
J o o s t v a n d e n V o n d e l
(1587 – 1679)
Domine, non est exaltatum
Myn hart is niet vermeeten
Van hoovaerdy bezeten.
Geen trotsheyt, noo gestuit,
Ziet my ten oogen uit.
Mijn wandel was, als dwazen,
Noit trots en opgeblazen,
Noch ’k roemde, al t’onbedocht,
Het geen ick niet vermoght.
Heb ickme uit trotsheit, sedert
Mijn boete, niet vernedert,
En, als een kint gespeent
Van ’s moeders borst, verkleent;
Zoo blijf mijn ziel, bezweecken
In druck, van u versteecken.
Dat Jakobs vroom geslacht
Godts hulp en troost verwacht’,
Die, nu en t’allen tijden,
Zijn stammen zal verblijden.
(Harpzangen 1656 – psalm 130)
Poem of the week
April 26, 2009
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kempis poetry magazine
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Het Uur van de Wolf over Boris Ryzhy
VPRO – TELEVISIE – NED. 2
Vrijdag 1 mei 2009 – 22.50-23.55
het uur van de wolf
B O R I S R Y Z H Y
Een film over poëzie, de Russische maffia, zelfmoord, liefde en de tragiek van de Perestrojka jaren. Een portret van een jonge dichter van de 21ste eeuw voor wie het leven in de ijzige industriestad Jekaterinburg ondraaglijk werd.
Filmdocumentaire over poëzie, de Russische maffia, zelfmoord, liefde en de tragiek van de Perestrojka-jaren. Een portret van een jonge dichter van de 21ste eeuw voor wie het leven in de ijzige industriestad Jekaterinburg ondraaglijk werd. ‘Al mijn gedichten gaan over liefde en dood, er zijn geen andere thema’s', schreef Boris Ryzhy, de piepjonge Russische deelnemer aan Poetry International Rotterdam van 2000. ‘Maar het is een dom cliché dat een dichter een persoonlijke tragedie moet hebben. Ik ben zielsgelukkig met mijn jeugdliefde Irina en mijn zoon.’ Een jaar later zal deze charmante en bewonderde dichter-hooligan zich ophangen in zijn kamer, de wereld in verbijstering achterlatend. Hij werd 26 jaar. ‘Hij was als een komeet die aan de hemel oplichtte om vervolgens weer uit te doven’, zo schreef de Russische pers over hem. Zeven jaar na zijn dood reisde Aliona van der Horst samen met Maasja Ooms (camera) af naar de ijzige industriestad Jekaterinburg, op de grens van Siberië, om de sfeer van zijn gedichten te vangen en het raadsel van zijn dood te ontsluieren. Een film vol intense blikken, industriële sferen en tragikomische ontmoetingen met buurtbewoners van de Staalschrootwijk, de ruige bandietenwijk waar Boris opgroeide en die hij de goudmijn voor zijn poëzie noemde. Een lelijke wereld die door zijn gedichten wonderschoon wordt.
Regie Aliona van der Horst
Camera Maasja Ooms
Eindredactie Saskia van Schaik
Producent Zeppers Film and TV
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Clément Pansaers: L’Apologie de la Paresse IX
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Clément Pansaers
(1885-1922)
L’APOLOGIE DE LA PARESSE 1917
Chapitre IX
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Monica Richter: Die Tür
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Monica Richter: Die Tür
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Monica Richter : Die Tür
Die Tür nach Beuys
Kunstakademie Düsseldorf, 2009
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KEMP=MAG poetry magazine
magazine for art & literature
© monica richter
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Exposition Alexander Calder in Centre Pompidou Paris
A L E X A N D E R C A L D E R
LES ANNÉES PARISIENNES, 1926-1933
18 March – 20 July 2009
Centre Pompidou Paris
An uncommonly lively and engaging character, Calder made his art into a continuous party, a party attended by his many friends, among them Joan Miró, Jean Cocteau, Man Ray, Fernand Léger and Piet Mondrian. Trained as an engineer, he was the inventor one of the most innovative and audacious forms of twentieth-century sculpture – the mobile, given its name by Marcel Duchamp. “Calder, les années parisiennes, 1926-1933” looks Calder’s Paris years, when he discovered his personal artistic vocabulary.
When he arrived in Paris in 1926, aged 27, Alexander Calder was a painter and illustrator. When he returned to the United States in 1933, he was the celebrated exponent of “drawing in space” and one of the greatest sculptors of the twentieth century.
The arrival in Paris of Calder’s Circus, the first time it has left New York since the artist’s death, is an event in itself, and this exceptional piece stands at the heart of the exhibition.
A ‘transatlantic’ artist, who after 1953 divided his time between the United States, the land of his birth, and his adopted country, France, Alexander Calder (1898-1976) is well known here for the large mobiles and stabiles of painted metal to be seen in French cities (La Spirale, at Unesco, Paris,1958) and sculpture parks (Reims Croix du Sud at Villeneuve-d’Ascq, 1969). Combining lightness and monumentality, playfulness and abstraction, these giant totems have become, for the general public, emblematic symbols of modern art.
As well as presenting outstanding pieces, the exhibition offers an opportunity to witness the original state of works conceived in terms of motion and equilibrium but now condemned to immobility by the exactions of time or by the death of their creator and animator, these being here accompanied by films such as Jean Painlevé’s and photographs such as Brassaï’s, in which they are shown being operated by Calder himself.
Little animals of bent metal, acute magazine illustrations, toys sparkling with colour and ingenuity: the young Calder’s earliest works offer a key to his art, the art of an inspired DIYer, of a magician who took base materials and primitive mechanisms and transformed them into true sculpture. These assemblies of recycled materials and objects, held together by wire, provided the models for his first masterpiece, the Circus, produced in Paris between 1926 and 1931.
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Robert Louis Stevenson poem: Looking-Glass River
R o b e r t L o u i s S t e v e n s o n
(1850-1894)
Looking-Glass River
Smooth it glides upon its travel,
Here a wimple, there a gleam–
O the clean gravel!
O the smooth stream!
Sailing blossoms, silver fishes,
Pave pools as clear as air–
How a child wishes
To live down there!
We can see our colored faces
Floating on the shaken pool
Down in cool places,
Dim and very cool;
Till a wind or water wrinkle,
Dipping marten, plumping trout,
Spreads in a twinkle
And blots all out.
See the rings pursue each other;
All below grows black as night,
Just as if mother
Had blown out the light!
Patience, children, just a minute–
See the spreading circles die;
The stream and all in it
Will clear by-and-by.
Paintings: John Singer Sargent (1856-1925)
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